


Anomaly

by jade304



Category: Drag-On Dragoon | Drakengard
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Dies/Nobody Lives, Emetophobia, Gen, Memory Loss, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Partial Mind Control
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 14:18:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16139012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jade304/pseuds/jade304
Summary: There’s blood caked in his armor alongside the mud. There is no immediate memory of how it got there, but he’s been coated in gore for so long it doesn’t even register as something to be concerned about. He keeps the sword anchored in his grip as he stumbles his way back through the forest.That’s how it begins.





	Anomaly

**Author's Note:**

> this is still very much a work in progress - mind the tags! they'll likely update with each chapter. 
> 
> i've been tossing this idea around since...probably early spring? it's about time i finally post some trace of its existence. the bad branch au. have fun! this isn't a fun time.

He wakes up about twenty minutes from camp, sword in hand and lying face-down in the mud.

Dragging himself up by his elbows, hissing unpleasantly at the mud caked in his clothing, his hair, and looks around himself. It’s a small clearing in the wood, trees arranged in a perfect ring around him. It’s a blessedly ordinary forest, else he’d likely be pissing off some faeries for stepping in their circle right now. They chose these woods specifically for their shelter; the thick trees with their large coverings and winding ancient branches forming canopies above them would shield even the red dragon if an airship were to pass overhead. This space leaves him with an unobstructed view of the sky, a hole in the forest; the tops of the sturdy old trees are dead, their branches gnarled and twisted inwards to form a ring around him. He’s sitting smack in the middle of it, almost as if they’re circling to point towards him.

_Dragon._

His voice cannot carry in the woods, but it should be enough for his pact partner to hear. It bounces back around in his own head; there isn’t even a reflexive mental pull of acknowledgment, one that usually comes even without a vocalized thought or response.

_Dragon._

He hears absolutely nothing. He can’t even feel that she’s there.

He faintly recognizes this place; they’d traveled past it at some point in the evening before to reach their makeshift camp. It feels further out now in the morning light, but it can’t be so far from camp that he cannot hear the dragon. The distance between them would have to be infinitely larger for her to even begin to sound faint. And it’s not like the dragon sleeps that she cannot respond. He looks up once again at the dead circle of trees; he can’t remember if he looked up the night before.

_Dragon!_

He stumbles to his feet; he feels incredibly weak, and holds onto his sword to ground himself steady. The dragon won’t respond, but this is familiar ground and he knows how to get back from here. He’ll find his way easy enough.

There’s blood caked in his armor alongside the mud. There is no immediate memory of how it got there, but he’s been coated in gore for so long it doesn’t even register as something to be concerned about. He keeps the sword anchored in his grip as he stumbles his way back through the forest.

That’s how it begins.

 

 

“Did you get lost on your way to the latrine or something?” The dragon scoffs as he shows up, still exhausted, still filthy. He turns his blade on her, and she huffs.

“If you don’t ask, I can’t respond.”

He called for her the whole way back.

“Hm. Go find your sister, she’s been pestering me all night.”

The image of Furiae, nervously trying to chat with the dragon, would make any other person laugh, or at least smile, but Caim is not any other person. He ambles off to go scrub himself down, at least the worst of the grime, before he goes off to find her in the union camp.

There’s a lot more blood than he initially took notice of – enough that it finally does set off to his mind that he probably shouldn’t be coated in quite so much. They fought next to nothing last night; even as he took watch, the only creatures in the woods to stray in their path were wild animals. He scrubs and scrubs and scrubs, pours a bucket of lukewarm water over his head. The water drips down his body in red rivulets. Underneath it all, he’s completely unharmed in spite of the exhaustion that is only just now beginning to fade from him.

He washes out his clothing as well, though little can be done for it. Mud and blood have utterly ruined it, and he’ll probably have to swap out clothes once he returns to his own tent. He shrugs the strained clothing back on, and heads back towards the center of camp. It’s much later in the day than he noticed when he first awoke; the group of soldiers are tense, unsure of where to proceed without their de facto leader.

Foolish, all of them, who should have left him behind to catch up with their trail. They cannot afford to keep in one place for very long, not with the goddess in tow.

It’s Inuart who spots him first, heading out of the goddess’s tent just as Caim approaches.

“Oh, it’s – Furiae, Caim has returned!”

A shuffling noise and clatter from within, and the girl bursts out of the tent. She shoves past an offended-looking Inuart to head directly for her brother.

“Caim!”

He lifts a hand in greeting, moving to call out. His mouth is dry, and no words come. Habits he’ll have to break. Furiae all but crashes into him in a hug, and he lowers his hand to pat her on the head. She’s trembling against him – another pressing reminder of all they still have yet to do, if the goddess is starting to physical buckle under the weight of the disturbed seals.

Inuart is the one to ask, “Caim, what happened? It’s already past noon.”

Caim gives a shrug as Furiae eases her grip on him. Dirt is streaked on her face from where she had been pressed up against him. Inuart looks annoyed, almost ready to go bother the dragon himself for a translation, but then he reconsiders. He shakes his head.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter if you’ve returned in one piece. Still...do not worry us like that, Caim.”

He can’t promise that if he doesn’t know why he wandered off in the first place. He nods in agreement nonetheless.

Inuart sulks off now that he has confirmed his friend still alive. Furiae looks between the two of them, uncertain of who to follow; she opts instead to go back to hiding in her own tent. Caim, without anything to do this late, wanders back over to where the dragon rests slightly separated from the main hub of the camp. There’s not any point in all of them packing up to leave this late. A day wasted. Another day for the empire to draw even closer to their position.

“Do you truly not know where you ran off to?” The dragon asks as he flops down on the ground next to her. He’s trying to shake the last of the exhaustion before he can go off and work.

_No. I woke up alone._

“...Strange.”

_Wouldn’t you have seen me leave? You do not rest._

“I never saw or heard you. My eyes see all, and you did not move an inch.”

The dragon does not say anything more to him for the rest of the afternoon.

 

 

Their best option, so far, seems to be to head towards the elves’ forest; the elves have never taken up any sides in Midgard’s wars, remaining eternally neutral. Inuart seems to be the most passionate about this plan; Furiae is his former fiancée, and he has the most loyalty out of any of them towards her to keep her safe. Blindly, Caim thinks; the elves cannot hope to defend themselves against the empire regardless of their stance in politics. Inuart blithely carries on with his plan, and the soldiers agree with it. Caim has no choice but to follow, and in any case, he hasn’t visited the elves’ territories himself. Perhaps they are more reinforced than he imagines.

He leans over the map laid out before them, quietly marking places, and his stomach churns. He hasn’t felt quite right today, even as he manages to push through. He bites his cheek, and points down spots on the map. Their quickest route to the elves’ village from here would be on their current path, anyway; the forests of the faeries, elves, and the unclaimed woods are all closely intertwined. On their current trail, they’d end up at the village soon enough. It’s a small hope, such a tiny place, but once they have the goddess secure once again they’ll be able to rejoin the greater union forces, and take more direct strike at the empire.

Caim’s hand is shaking over the map. Inuart and the soldiers look at him curiously; Inuart more pointed after his quick excuses earlier. Caim bites his lip.

He shakes his head, apology lost in translation, and stumbles out of the tent.

His stomach sour and mouth salivating, he manages to get at least a few strides away from the tent before he vomits; it burns his throat and he leans over, hacking and coughing in breathy gasps. He tries to stand back up straight and another twist of his stomach makes him cough again, this time splashing straight on his armor. His ears are ringing as he falls to his knees, barely missing the mess he’s made.

It feels like something’s caught in his throat – heavy and solid, he coughs forcibly; he tries to wipe his mouth and instead drips more bile through his gloved fingers. He can barely breathe through it. Why hasn’t anyone come to see him dying yet?

Caim slams his hand against his stomach to dislodge whatevers in his throat; the clatter against metal makes his head spin and the ringing worse, but he feels _something_ move. His vision is blurry from shortness of breath, and the mess in front of him looks strangely dark and tar-like. He coughs again, and leans over as he spits onto the ground. It’s solid, and won’t stop coming; small grains scratch his throat and burn his tongue, there’s so much that it begins to pile on the ground, but the taste of it is oddly familiar, almost like -

“Caim?”

He turns around; it’s Inuart again. He looks alarmed; Caim looks down at himself.

Where he’d made a mess of himself before, his armor is completely clean; he’s kneeling in dry dirt. There isn’t any vomit nor black tar anywhere, and when he touches his bare hand to his tongue, he can’t feel any sort of texture from anything. Inuart stands there, watching Caim sit there stupidly holding his own tongue.

“If you’re unwell, please, go rest,” Inuart says. His brow is furrowed. “We can set out in the morning once you’ve slept it off.”

They stare at each other for another moment before Inuart turns back into the tent. Caim looks down again; the ground is still clean.

He tries reaching out for the dragon, almost nervous of what response he might not get, but this time can feel their mental pull still strong. Deliberating quietly, he eventually settles for heading back for his own tent.

 

 

By the time they set out for the elves’ village the next day, Caim is feeling monumentally better; the previous days’ strangeness is chalked up to a sudden bout of illness and moved on. The dragon still regards him warily; perhaps nervous that only a few days into their pact, she’s found the lone human who will suddenly get ill and die, killing them both. But with renewed vigor, they set off for the village. Caim and the dragon fly high above the rest of the group; as expected, the empire’s flying army is upon them in moments, but the dragon is an easy match for them. The irony of being able to use the power of one of the things that he hates the most isn’t lost on Caim, but he holds tight to the dragon’s neck and steers her into battle. There’s an adrenaline in flying, and it’s become therapeutic, almost, clearing his thoughts especially after the previous day and its oddities.

They arrive at the elves’ village in quick time, ahead of their own army, to find it gone.

Truly gone.

“Is this the right...place?” Furiae asks, as they step into an empty wood.

“It is indeed the elf village,” the dragon says. Even she sounds bewildered. “But... _where_ is it?”

It isn’t so much that the village has been destroyed – Caim could imagine the scene if it were. Ruined buildings, smoldering with fire, smoke making their eyes water. He can see it almost too well, a strange sense of deja-vu.

But in front of them, there is nothing. The only indication there ever _was_ a village is the space cleared out for buildings, noticeable gaps in the trees. The buildings themselves are completely gone, not even foundations remaining to mark their place. There is nothing in the clearing, save for a splattering of blood on the ground.

They approach it slowly, anticipating a trap, but nothing approaches from the shadows of the trees to ambush them. There truly is nothing there. 

_Speak not the Watchers_

_Draw not the Watchers_

_Write not the Watchers_

_Sculpt not the Watchers_

_Sing not the Watchers_

_Call not the Watchers’ name_

The last letter trails off into a splattering of blood. Its origin remains hidden, or long since disappeared.

“What is this?” asks the dragon. Inuart walks past them, falling to his knees in front of the message.

“How can it...where can they...how can the whole village _vanish?_ ”

None of them have an answer. Caim walks through the clearing of empty space; there are no similar blood markings anywhere else. Someone had penned the message and left. Furiae stays close to Inuart as Caim scours the area for something, anyone; blood isn’t spilled from nowhere. Something about this bothers him, but he shoves it aside to keep searching. He comes up with only a bent dagger, but even that is clean of any gore. He tucks it away, returning to the group. He shakes his head.

“Not a soul,” Inuart cries. “How are we to protect Furiae, if we cannot -”

“Silence!” Interrupts the dragon suddenly. They fall silent, watching her. The dragon lifts her head up, listening. The humans hear nothing but the wind whistling through the trees. She lowers her head, growls.

“It’s...the heirarch?”

“Verdelet?” Furiae says. “Where is he?”

“He wants us to meet him at the desert temple,” the dragon says. “The goddess will be safer there.”

“Then let me take her!” Inuart cuts in. Both the dragon and Caim stare at him. “Furiae will be safe with me.”

Caim looks like he’s ready to interrupt, but the dragon cuts in for him. “Very well,” she says. “You two go on ahead. We will remain and investigate this.” 

Now it is only Caim and the dragon alone in the empty village. Even after doing several more rounds around the place, they cannot find any sign of the elves nor their captors. It’s as if the entire village up and vanished in the night. A ridiculous notion, but there are no signs of any sort of struggle beyond the bloodied message. Not a single footprint, or torn earth, or rubble lying in the dirt. Only the empty space where a village may have once stood.

Caim brushes his hand through the blood on the ground, frowning. “Who are these watchers?” The dragon asks. He doesn’t have a response.

 

 


End file.
